


give you my wild, give you a child

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Impregnation, Jealousy, Most Important TW incoming, Parenthood, Possessive Behavior, Pregnancy Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 15:54:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30141942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: When the Council instills a two-child quota for every healthy inhabitant to keep underpopulation and inbreeding at bay, Bellamy doesn't even have the brain capacity to think further ahead than the baby he's having with Clarkeright now.Years pass, and then he's harshly reminded that different fathers are encouraged for a diversifying of the gene pool each time someone approaches Clarke, preposition at hand or not.Eventually, it's only human that he snaps.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 252
Collections: The 100 Kinkmeme Round 2021





	give you my wild, give you a child

**Author's Note:**

  * For [chants_de_lune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chants_de_lune/gifts).



> i got a little bit too much into my feelings writing this one ngl lmao  
> technically i guess you could say this is a s4 canon au

Clarke is popular. He knew she would be. 

Isn't that why they first decided to do it? Sure, Clarke told him that since they'd been doing everything else together, they might as well do this. Letting of some steam in the meanwhile, reducing stress, probably won’t work the first few months, maybe years anyway. Her body’s been through a lot, and she’s had the implant since she was fourteen. He was the easy pick for her, he knows that. She wanted to do it with him because it was convenient, because he wouldn’t ask questions if she startled awake at night screaming, if on some days she woke up and didn’t want to get out of bed for the rest of the day. 

If he could give her that comfort, that trust, that was enough for him.

Bellamy agreed, because she’s his best friend and he loves her and he didn’t really want to bother with anyone else. He didn’t see the purpose in starting over, re-learning someone else when Clarke already knew every part of him. Accepted him for it, liked and sometimes even appreciated him for it. 

But also, well. _Also_ because he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else touching her. After Lexa… He promised himself that would never happen again. That he would say something next time. That he would put a stop to it before it could get that far. And Clarke, she was offering it to him on a silver platter. He didn’t even have to confess anything, he didn’t have to risk their friendship, not the inexplicable trust between them or not entirely unimportant, his pride. 

The Council said that because of the risk of underpopulation and eventually inbreeding, every healthy inhabitant of Arkadia was encouraged to start procreating within the next two years. As always is with the Council, the encouragement wasn’t so much a gentle nudge as a forceful push into the right direction. There was no mention of torture, forced insemination, banishment or lock-up sentence, not implied anyway, but at the very least you’d be a social pariah. Frowned upon by the rest of their people because you’re not willing to do what it takes to save them.

Naturally, everyone started partnering up. Some were eager to start conceiving, others less. 

Him and Clarke, they already were a unit. People already thought what they wanted to think, so if they just leaned into that a little more heavily to get people off their backs that wasn’t such a big deal. 

The sex wasn’t either. They already shared everything else, so why not their bodies? She’d already woken up with him hard against the curve of his ass, he’d already seen her naked bathing down at the lake. He’d seen her with that lost hazy look in her eyes and a gun to the side of her head too, put there by herself, and she’d seen him covered in his own blood and tears, after a night terror shook him so badly he tore his stitches. They’d seen the worst, the best. 

It felt good. Natural. _Easy_. 

The two-child quota with preferably different fathers didn’t even register with him back then. He didn’t have the brain capacity to think that far ahead. Every day was still an uncertainty, not a given. They’d just barely managed the world from imploding from the inside out, they hadn’t gotten the luxury of imagining a tomorrow after tomorrow. 

The first year and half they sabotaged themselves. He’d pull out, she’d trade on the black market back at Polis for some special tea. Who wanted to bring a child into the world, _this_ world? All they knew was dead and despair. Wars, you have no choice but to participate in. Leaving people off worse than you found them. Eventually they started to prick and prod at her body to figure out why she wasn’t pregnant yet when her implant had been inactive for so long, and Bellamy got into a fight with some girl who implied he was fucking someone who was damaged goods. 

“She was offering her services,” Clarke told him later that night, a curious look on her face, a hint of something in her eyes he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Outside, there was the quiet hubbub of people talking around a fire, the loud footsteps of guard issued boots, the steady ripple of the creak not far away. It was dark in the tent -- their cabin was still only a tent back then -- just the low flicker of a lantern by the foot of their makeshift bed, old pallets from a bunker and a plethora of animal furs, so it was hard to make out what she was really thinking. Especially with his hand throbbing, with his mind zoning in on the soft trickle of water into the warm bucket every time she dipped the scrap of cloth back in to rinse, bringing it back up to his knuckles to make sure all the bark and splinters were cleaned out.

He didn’t punch the girl, but he punched the nearest tree, not even sure what point he was trying to make. Probably that if anyone was damaged goods, it was him. “What do you mean?”

“A child,” Clarke explained, swallowing hard. She wasn’t looking at him now. “She wasn’t insulting me. She was --” Her eyes drag back up, almost sad, teeth biting into her bottom lip briefly. “Advertising her own _assets_.”

It clicked then. Not that it mattered.

“Well, she did a bad job of it,” he grumbled, huffing indignantly. People should’ve known by then that him and Clarke, they’re a package deal. Insinuating anything _bad_ about Clarke won’t ever get them into his good graces. Actually, they won’t ever get into his good graces again. That’s over forever. And then, because she looked so pretty in the dim yellow light, with her golden hair and sunkissed skin and perfect pink lips with that little teasing beauty mark, he couldn’t keep himself from adding, “I don’t want hers.”

Clarke didn’t say anything else that night, wrapped up his hand in silence and even kept from calling him an idiot for probably breaking his hand over something as stupid as her honor, something she always claimed she lost a long time ago, but she curled up to him extra tightly after he extinguished the lantern. And in the morning, when she woke him up for slow morning sex as often happened, she covered his hand on her cheek with her own, taking it off to kiss his knuckles gently. 

Whatever the two of them had, it was so much more important than a quick fuck with a willing girl, more important than whatever law or encouragement was imposed on their people, more important than what anyone else assumed about them, something so strong yet so precious and breakable.

Peace really did come. Tentatively, but -- _there._ The Coalition was holding up, their people were starting to repopulate and not exactly thrive, but bloom, slowly. They grew stronger. Had more to trade, less to depend on other clans for. 

Octavia came to visit with Ilian, let him hold her pudgy few months old daughter. “Augustus,” she said, when he asked what her name was, her eyes shining with fresh tears at the sight of her child in his arms. Something he thought had broken a long time ago between them was suddenly -- not whole, but connected again. A tiny string of hope. Before they left back to go to Illian’s family’s farm, she grabbed his elbow, told him, green eyes hazy with love as she peered down at her daughter, “I didn’t understand before.”

It wasn’t an apology, not exactly, but that was Octavia. 

Eventually, Bellamy started figuring maybe a baby really wasn’t that bad. He didn't think he deserved it. He didn't think the world was much better than it was a few years ago. He didn't think he was much better than he was a few years ago. Yet he often found himself thinking about how fat and adorable and soft Augustus was, how proud he was when Monty and Harper’s son took his first steps, how happy it instantly made him when he heard a child giggling, how much it made him glow whenever he was the one to make them do it. How innocent and pure the sound, how hopeful it made him for the future. That there was still a chance for them, to do better, be better. He never told Clarke, but --

But somehow she knew. 

“Stay inside me,” Clarke casually commands him one night, gasping softly between words. She’s on her back, still damp hair from their outing at the lake on her pillow like a halo, cheeks flushed a pretty pink from exertion.

“What?” Bellamy wasn’t sure he heard her right, shifting his grip on the back of her knee just a little as he pauses himself mid-thrust.

“Don’t pull out,” she clarifies, fingers curling tighter around his triceps, peering up at him with sparkling blue eyes. There’s that look of defiance on her face, the one she gets in Council rooms and taking names and pulling levers.

“Do you --” He was seriously straining, took a second to catch his breath, swallowing and licking his lips. A furrow formed between his brows. “The tea?”

She shook her head first, then rolled her hips into him a little. “No.” 

Bellamy almost came on the spot. The combination of her certainty, of the way her cunt felt like a vice around his throbbing cock, of the thought of where something like that could lead. Her soft belly, swollen, expanding, _growing_. He had to grit his teeth together, jaw clenching almost painfully. “Clarke.”

She pulled herself up enough to peck his mouth, once. Short, perfunctory, lips a means to shut him up. “Let’s just do it,” Clarke pushed, almost as if annoyed with his sudden reluctance, hands moving up his shoulders and down his taut spine to rest over his hips, urging him on while simultaneously rocking her hips up into him. “I know you want to.”

And he did. Maybe things stopped being so simple a long time ago, maybe when they first touched the ground, or perhaps after, when they chose to do the things they did to survive. Maybe wanting things wasn’t enough. 

But, fuck -- he really wanted it. He wanted a baby, a child. With her, Clarke, pregnant, the mother of his child. He didn’t want anything else. He’s never wanted anything more. 

It didn’t take for the first few months. They weren’t in a hurry, but still he found himself grow impatient. He didn’t want her to change her mind, or find someone better. Then Clarke got sick. Nothing too bad, but there was nausea, weight loss, these really bad migraines. Radiation, they thought at first. She had these mottled stains on her face after staying out in the sun too long, confetti-like patches of skin over her usually creamy smooth cheeks and forehead. 

“Melasma,” Jackson told them, after Bellamy had successfully -- but not easily -- dragged Clarke over from creak behind their cabin to the med bay settled in the centre of camp. Physical force was initiated. He’d cornered her there, washing off the dirt of the day, taking her chin in his hand to examine her. She’d been brushing it off as a bad sunburn for days, but it kept getting worse, even after he got some weird green pasture to protect fair skin against the sun from Nyko. She stubbornly refused to stay out of the sun too, said they needed her help building housing in the South wing of their settlement, as if they both didn’t know she was only there every day working herself to the bone to keep her mind off other things, so she was too physically exhausted to be emotionally exhausted as well, as if they both didn’t know she was avoiding the medbay like a plague, convinced she could only hurt not heal, old aliases haunting her. So really, he was out of options. 

Clarke’s face remained steely as she just blinked at Jackson, who was the only compromise Bellamy was willing to make. She didn’t want to see her mother, so they didn’t, but she _was_ seeing a doctor. Bellamy was less subtle, “Huh?”

The doctor sighed, jotting something down on his weathered clipboard. “Or cloasma.”

Bellamy started to get irritated at this point, his nostrils flaring. “You’re not making any sense.”

He smiled, kindly, like the words he was saying were supposed to mean something to them. “It can happen because of hormonal fluctuations in your body. Often worsened by exposure to the sun.”

Apparently Clarke had already connected the dots because she’d stiffened, fingernails briefly digging into her opposite biceps, but Bellamy was left glancing between her and the doctor, wondering if this meant she was dying. Did she have cancer? Brain cancer? Was that why she kept getting those headaches? Could they do neurosurgery with their limited supplies? Did he have to go back to Becca’s lab--

Jackson finally seemed to take mercy on him. “Also known as a pregnancy mask.”

When Bellamy looked back at Clarke this time, she was already looking at him. Her eyes were slightly widened, but she wasn’t freaking out as much as he thought she would’ve. Her arms dropped to her sides as her face softened at the look on his, tilting her head slightly in question. 

_Are you happy?_ She asked him silently, and fuck. Fuck, he was. His arms were around her shoulders in no time, her cheek pressed against his chest as her hands tentatively came up to rest on his lower back. After he kissed the top of her head and squeezed her even closer, her arms finally tightened around him, relaxing into his hold. His leaned the side of his face on top of her forehead, swaying them lightly. _They were going to be parents._

They hugged, because that’s what they do, but not for the first time, he realized he really wanted to kiss her. He’d done it before, of course, but only ever in the heat of the moment, only ever while getting off, while the lines were blurred but boundaries were also more set in place than ever, when it was just another physicality. He wanted it to be more. Reassurance, celebration, feel better, I love you, goodmorning, goodnight.

He already had so much. It felt selfish to demand more of her.

The next six months were some of the worst of his life. He was used to worrying about other people, worrying about Clarke was even second-nature at this point, and although it had gotten better over the last few years, he long stopped holding himself back from being vocal about his concerns when he thought they really mattered. Clarke was often too selfless for her own good, too strong-headed to be told otherwise, but he had his ways of getting through to her. 

Now, Clarke was carrying his child. It was the best, most effective card she could play on him. And she did, often. When he asked her to stop doing so much physical labor, when he brought her lunch or tried to make her take a water break, when he wanted to drag her out of a heated Coalition meeting with one too many angry war criminals in the room, when she really wanted to get off eight months in and he didn’t want to hurt the baby. 

It was torture. 

All Clarke had to say was “Your baby is inside of me” or “I am the mother of your child” and all his counter-arguments flew right out of the window. He’d get hard too, half of the time, hearing her say those words. Bellamy knows it’s insanely fucked up, but just the thought of her pregnant with his child was enough to drive him absolutely crazy those days. He thinks she was more than aware of it, too.

The birth was the worst though. Clarke was in so much pain, and he was so helpless, so useless, all he could do was hold her hand through it, reminding her to breathe, telling her what a good job she was doing.

“Go get Abby,” he commanded loudly, twelve hours of contractions and two and a half of pushing later.

“No,” Clarke cried, but she was half out of it, delirious with pain, fingernails leaving bleeding crescent-shaped imprints on the back of his hand and forearm, eyes hardly able to stay open, shaking her head wildly. “No. No.”

“I got it handled,” Jackson lied, because he was definitely lying. There was blood everywhere. Bellamy didn’t remember there being so much blood with his mom.

“Go get Abby,” he barked out, repeating himself to one of the healer interns by the door. Clarke didn’t want Abby there, for the same reason she didn’t want any analgesia, but Jackson had only delivered one child under her mother’s supervision so far, and Bellamy wasn’t about to take any risks, not when _Bellamy_ practically had more experience delivering babies than the only doctor in the room.

The shaken student scrambled to go get Clarke’s mother, and she was already pacing outside the door, so it only took a few seconds for her to appear at the end of the bed. There _was_ a bleed, nothing too bad, easily fixed, and technically Abby didn’t even do anything. Just watched Jackson over his shoulder, giving him a few murmured tips here and there quiet enough not to agitate her own daughter with her presence, and then when the baby finally was out completely and Jackson started suturing Clarke up, Bellamy even kind of forgot there was anyone else there at all. 

Because Clarke, Clarke was holding their baby. She was crying, sobbing even, thick tears rolling down her cheeks as one of the young students, a kid named Mel, placed the squirming, wailing thing on her chest. The baby was overwhelmed fom being ripped from his home, exposed to so many new sights and sounds and smells all at once. Blood smeared Clarke’s cheek as she used the last of her energy to duck her head forward to press a kiss to the baby’s forehead, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead and temples from sweat. Bellamy couldn’t look away, held up her exhausted weight as the baby held onto his finger so tightly it made _him_ cry, feeling so much, just looking at him, at them, his family. His son, proud owner of ten fingers and toes, eventually quieted, calmed by his mother’s heartbeat and his father’s soothing rubs down his tiny hand.

_Clarke_ didn’t speak to him for three days. 

Granted, she mostly slept for the first two, only waking up to feed their son or cuddle him to her chest. He made sure to let her rest, because birth was a definite process, and they were no longer on their own schedule. They were on Phoenix’s schedule now, whether they liked it or not.

Their cabin looked like the aftermath of a nuclear war. There was baby stuff everywhere. Clothed diapers, onesies and tiny socks, handmade pacifiers he had to trade an arm and leg for. Gifts from people they didn't even know, food from overly invested neighbours, stacks of dishes piled up and half a week worth of laundry plastered over every available piece of furniture. He’d like the record to show he didn’t crack. Not because he’s petty, not with her at least, or because he wasn’t upset with her for being upset with him, but because they just had their son, and he didn’t want to fight with her, he didn’t want to put more weight onto her shoulders.

Clarke was the one who brought it up. 

Phoenix was propped up against his chest, Bellamy patting his back to make him burp before taking a nap. _God,_ babies slept so much. He almost forgot. Outside, the sun was high in the sky, the weather warming to new heights, enough to make his skin slick with sweat. 

Clarke just finished covering her breasts back up when one of her sketchbooks clattered to the floor, she cursed loudly under her breath, and when she went to reach for it from her position on the rocking chair he built last summer, she groaned in pain. 

His nostrils flared, but he didn’t say anything. She wasn’t supposed to exert herself yet, but she didn’t want to listen to him anyway, so he just walked over there, supporting Phoenix’s head as he bent down to pick up the book and a few scattered pages, putting it down on top of the kitchen table. Bellamy could feel her stare on the side of his face, but he ignored it, shushing Phoenix as he started getting fussy, somehow more attuned to the frosty atmosphere than some full-grown adults. 

Clark didn’t look at him as she bristled quietly, as if betrayed, “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Finally, a burp, and Bellamy sends her a pointed, heated look. “I _am_ on your side.” If that wasn’t clear by now, he’s made some very grave mistakes. “I’ll always be on your side.”

“Funny,” she spat, wrapping her arms around herself, sleeves so long they covered her hands, and he immediately started shaking his head.

“Being on your side doesn’t always mean agreeing with you, Clarke. I don’t want to lose you. I thought I might, so I made a decision. One you didn’t like, which is fine,” he retorted easily, the dark rumble of his voice making Phoenix upset, squirming quietly against his shoulder, so he lowered it then, trying to remain calm, rational even if nothing he feels for her ever will be, “I don’t care if keeping you safe means you hate me for the rest of our lives, because at least that means you’re alive enough to do it.”

Clarke’s entire face scrunched up, tears welling in her eyes that she would later blame on postpartum hormones. “You’re such a dick.”

“Hey,” he said, soft, tapping her ankle with his foot to signal for her to get up. Bellamy slid into the chair himself, adjusting a now appeased Phoenix in one arm as he dragged her down to sit on the opposite thigh, banding his arm around her as he kissed her cheek.

She let herself lean into him for a second, gingerly running her finger over Phoenix’s nose as they both stared down at him in silence for a few moments. “I don’t understand,” she wondered then, a quiet tremble in her voice. “He’ll always be enough for me.”

“You are enough too, Clarke,” he promised, steady and certain, wanting her to know how much he means it. Wanting her to understand that her mother’s struggle wasn’t much different from some of their own they once faced. “Some demons -- some take longer to fight than others.” He swallowed hard, remembering a flash of long blonde hair as she walked away from him a long time ago. A flash of dark charcoal eye-make up as she refused to come home. He resented her for it back then, but he understood now, better than anyone. “Sometimes you have to fight them on your own.”

She nodded against the crook of his neck then, after a beat, after the words had settled in, and they both watched their son as he yawned, eyes fluttering as he started to fall asleep, probably dreaming an unsullied dream, both content that he still had those.

For a while, Bellamy forgot. He was just -- _happy_. He loves Clarke, he loves Phoenix. He especially loves seeing them together. She’s so gentle with him, in a way he’s never seen her, so open and unguarded, coaxing smiles and confidence from their son in ways no one else can. This life they build with each other, for their child. It’s perfect, in all it’s chaos. 

The older Phoenix's been getting, the more and more men and even a few women have started to swarm around Clarke, the more and more Council members have started to pressurize her, making comments about her duty, about setting an example, about willing participants, the more and more comments she’s been receiving from complete strangers about growing her family, providing another child.

No one ever comes up to him, but that’s probably because they can see it on his face. He’s self-aware enough to recognize he’s terrible at hiding his true feelings. It’s Clarke, or it’s no one.

Bellamy’s just a tiny bit peeved apparently it’s not obvious _enough_ when it comes to people entertaining the thought of not staying away from Clarke. Either that, or people have grown too comfortable around him. He longs for the days his reputation preceded him. 

It’s a gradual build up over weeks. Some guy gives Clarke fresh strawberries with a flirty smile, and then another asks her out for a drink a few days later. This dude named Gabriel sweet-talks her into a dance at the trading festival the week after, and some other prick has the audacity to show up to their cabin to ask for a ‘meeting’ about ‘future alliances’. 

It’s Unity Day when he snaps. 

Phoenix is bouncing in lap listlessly, clawing at his father's jaw with apple sauce all over his own chin as Bellamy tries to feed it to him. The drums during these kinds of feasts used to scare him, now they only energize him, make him restless and antsy.

A familiar sound draws his attention, and when he looks up at the spot where Clarke was two minutes ago getting them some refills, she is now accompanied by some loser named Cillian, a bright red poppy now stuck behind her ear as she laughs at something he says.

Cillian is _still_ talking, brushing her elbow with his hand as he leans closer, smiling like the insubordinate weasel he is. Clarke is not his to touch, his to make laugh, to stand so near to. How fucking dare he?

Without a word, Bellamy lifts his son from his lap and onto Miller’s, who is sitting beside him with Bryan, their adopted five year old daughter braiding (read: pulling on and placing Grounder ornaments in) his sleek brown hair. Miller warningly calls out after him, shushing Phoenix’s incoherent brabbles, but Bellamy doesn’t listen.

He’s seeing red, white-hot stars as he marches over there, clearing his throat. He is fully aware he’s being an asshole when he completely ignores the dude and instead turns to Clarke with narrowed eyes, “What’s taking so long?”

She purses her lips, that annoyed little dip above her eyebrow right next to that little birthmark making an appearance, and just when she’s about to answer, Cillian cuts in, unashamed, “We were talking.”

Bellamy barely glances over at him long enough to bark out, “And now you’re not.” He nudges his head back over to the table, his eyes softening just a little as they land on Clarke. He’s not mad with her. He has no right to be. He knows he’s being irrational.

Then, the dipshit decides to pipe up again, a casual arrogance to his voice as if he has the upperhand, his eyebrows raised, “Last time I checked, she wasn’t your property.”

Bellamy snorts, actually snorts, dry and mirthless, scoffing in the guy’s face. He wants to talk about property? About _his_ best friend? About the mother of _his_ child? About the woman _he_ loves? She is his, if only because every part of him belongs to her, if only because he is nothing without her, if only because -- she has to be. “Let’s go.”

“Hey,” the other guy grits, grabbing him by the back of his jacket near the elbow as they turn away to go back to the table. “She doesn’t have to listen to you.”

“Cillian, it’s okay,” Clarke tries to insist, a slight edge to her voice, warily observing the look on Bellamy’s face as he swats the hand off his arm.

His jaw nearly pops out of it’s socket from how hard he’s straining it, a deathly glare in his nearly black eyes. “Don’t _ever_ touch me again.”

“Or what?” Cillian chuckles, mirthless, looking him up and down with disdain. “You’re going to prove to me how much better she can do?”

Nothing is as satisfying as the crack of a jaw under his fist, no matter how much it proves the point the guy was making to start with. He’s holding his face now, actually starts laughing, shaking his head. “Good. Show her. Show her how much of a barbarian you are.”

His chest heaves up and down heavily, but he tries to stay calm, tries to listen to the sound of Clarke’s voice as tugs on his sleeve and tells him to come with her, tries to count to ten. It kind of helps, in a way, to keep him from attacking, to keep him from knocking his lung loose or telling him in what way he will be dying. Instead he settles on the more subtle, seething, “Stay away from her.”

Cillian smirks, a sheen of red covering his straight white teeth. This prick really thinks he’s so much better than him. “Have you ever considered she doesn’t want me to?”

It hits exactly where it’s supposed to hurt. All his personal insecurities and concerns dragged to the surface all at once. Maybe he isn’t enough. Maybe he’s not what she wants, not forever. Maybe she’s not happy.

So naturally, Bellamy suckerpunches him again. Cillian strikes back, of course, tackling him to the ground. He manages to land a few punches, but Bellamy definitely has the upperhand. 

All the commotion has drawn attention from the crowd, and eventually they’re pulled apart by other people. Marcus only lets go of him to give him a judgemental look of disappointment once he stops trying to break free and agrees to go with Clarke, spitting out a mouthful of blood.

In all the chaos, the poppy has fluttered to the ground along with the drink that spilled from Clarke’s hand, and Bellamy makes sure to stomp it under his boot before she manages to drag him away towards their cabin. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Clarke prompts, eerily calm, dropping a cloth into the bucket by their backdoor. She pulls it back out, wringing it before she looks at him over her shoulder, crouched down, her voice more confused than anything else, frustrated too, “I haven’t seen you act so reckless like that since--”

The Dropship? Probably the Dropship. He’s matured a lot since then, did some growing up, some reflecting too, learned to use his words instead of his fists, his head instead of his heart, but _God_ , he almost forgot how good it felt to break skin that belongs to a jackass with his bare hands. 

He’s kept a handle on it for too long. People have started to assume they can take what’s his. Bellamy sits down on their bed and shrugs out of his jacket, wincing slightly as he realizes he took a harder hit in the ribs than he’d initially assumed. Short, and dismissive, he cuts her off, “I know.”

Clarke appears in front of him then, roughly pressing the cold material to his face that’s probably blooming a dark purple already. “Is this who you want your son to think you are?” She prods, disappointed, and then, as if he didn’t hate _himself_ enough, adds, “Is this who you want him to be?”

Something breaks inside of him, something painful and raw, something he’s been ignoring for too long, and he can’t hide away from it any longer. He just can’t. “I can’t do this anymore.”

She startles, making him hiss as she presses the cold cloth to his undereye just a little too hard. Her shoulders stiffen, and he watches her lips part as she holds her breath. She doesn’t look at him, fixated on the bruise on his cheekbone.

Bellamy sighs, reaches up to pull her hand off his face, holding it in his lap as he runs his thumb over the back of it. “I can’t watch these self-satisfied assholes swarm around you like it’s open season for hunting.” 

Clarke is his. He made that clear, or at least he thought he did. Not openly, never openly with words, because she would yell at him, curse him, maybe even beat him up, give him a speech about entitlement and owning people and the twenty-second century, but he’s definitely been giving off that very specific vibe to anyone who dares to come near her. He knows he’s been. 

He might never have her in the way he wants her to, she might never want him back like that, but what they have -- that’s enough. It’s everything. He doesn’t want anyone to ruin that by bringing another party into the mix, another child that’s not his, but will be Phoenix’s sibling. She won’t expect him to move out, but maybe her new partner will. Or maybe he’ll want to move in once the baby is born, and he has every much of a right to want that as Bellamy.

Clarke searches his face with earnest blue eyes for a moment, then brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, averting her eyes to the right. “I know how you feel.” She loosens her fingers on the cloth, and it drops to the floor as she shifts to sit down beside him. Her eyes flicker from their hands to his brown eyes. “You don’t think it was hard for me?”

For a moment, he’s struck with surprise. “What?”

Clarke sucks in a deep breath, licking her lips nervously. “I love Phoenix, you know I do, but the only reason I initially started being okay with the thought of even bringing someone else into the world--” She hesitates, brief, then clarifies, “--to bring _your_ child into the world, was because I was afraid someone else would beat me to it.”

Bellamy’s so shocked he can only stare at her in silence, his mind racing as his heart beats a staccato against his ribcage. All this time -- he never even dared to imagine she had feelings, _possessive_ feelings, for him.

She chuckles, mirthless, running her free hand through her hair until it gets stuck on a knot. “You think that girl Bree was the only one?” It takes him a second for it to click. _Damaged goods._ That was her. “Girls were glaring at me all the time, muttering things under their breaths when I walked by, making little subtle digs and snide remarks about my fertility, or _hostile uterus_.” She scoffs, “Some of them were even brave enough to come up to me and tell me I was holding up the line.”

His brows furrow together, shoulders slouching. He feels like he’s entered an alternative reality. “Holding up the line?”

“You’re wanted, Bell,” Clarke presses, fondly exasperated, tilting her head slightly as her fingers squeeze his. There’s an almost sad, regretful look in her blue eyes. “As long as you don’t have two children, as long as they have a chance or the opportunity, they’re going to keep coming.”

How does she not get it? How does she still not get it? If it was up to him, there’d be a ring, one of those matching grounder tattoos, lovemarks all across her neck. Anything, to make it known. “They _think_ they have a chance.”

“You don’t care about Arkadia’s genepool?” She teases, but it falls flat as she takes in a shaky breath, a somber look in her eyes. She’s still preparing for the worst.

“Clarke,” Bellamy breathes, making a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t give a fuck about _diversifying the bloodline_.” He remembers that very direct quote from Kane. He hesitates then, not sure if he’ll be pushing it if he says it, taking it too far too quickly, but he can’t help himself either, “They’re mistaken if they think I’ll ever have a child with anyone but you.”

“Why?” She sounds frustrated, strained, as if he's saying things that are impossible to understand.

“ _Because_.” That should be enough -- just because he said so -- but he adds, “You’re the best mother any child could hope for.”

Her voice trembles, and she looks upset, pulling her hand back into her own lap. “Do you know that I love you?”

_Yeah, Clarke_ , he thinks, affectionately, _I know_. Despite the fact she finds those words hard to say, to anyone, to him, and that she remains incapable of being vulnerable too often, she’s never given him any reason to doubt it. He’s her best friend, her partner. Of course she loves him.

Bellamy smiles, playful, nudging her a little with his elbow. “I hope so.”

Her face remains stoic, her brows furrowed together as she gets this look of disbelief, of doubt and misjudgement, betrayal and hurt in her eyes. “I mean -- that I’m in love with you.”

That knocks the air straight from his lungs, and he blinks at her for a moment as he processes this brand new information. She’s in love with him? “You are?”

She must take his surprise for something else, nails digging into her thighs as she shifts her face away from him. As if rehearsed before, she starts, scowling bitterly, “I understand if that makes it weird for you, if this was all about my maternal qualities, or some responsibility you feel towards me, you don’t owe me--”

Bellamy clenches his jaw, fingers balling into fists. “Shut up.”

Her head snaps back to face him so fast, he imagines she must’ve pulled a muscle in her neck doing it. There’s heat in her eyes, defense in her posture. “Excuse me?”

“You think too much,” he explains, simply, then huffs to himself. Does she not understand how amazing she is? How lucky anyone would be to be with her? It's not a burden to love her. Far from. “Responsibility? Maternal qualities? Are you insane?”

Clarke swallows tightly, shaking her head imperceptibly. “Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you!” He snaps back, and he sounds delirious, not entirely sure if he’s closer to crying or laughing, because God, she loves him too, and she has doubts about whether or not _he_ feels the same way, as if she’s just a convenience to him, some placekeeper or incubator, someone he could possibly live without. “You’re crazy. I love you, Clarke. That’s the only reason you’re my first choice. My only choice--”

“Not that damn oxymoron again,” she curses, but she’s smiling, and there’s tears too, and he thinks maybe it is possible to want to laugh and cry at the same time. There’s a flash, of the world burning, of almost losing her, losing everything. The only thing he owes her is his life. If that’s not enough then his heart, too, his head because she asked him to, his body and soul. Everything, he owes her everything. That’s not a bad thing. She gave everyone a second chance at life on Earth. She gave him a son. He’ll never stop repaying her for that. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t love her too. Not for what she did for them, what she did for him, but because of who she is, who she’s been and who she’ll be, if he’s lucky enough to be allowed to witness it. 

Bellamy gives her a look, even though he’s biting back a smile too. “I’m trying to be romantic here.”

She brushes at the wetness under her eyes, flicking them up at the ceiling in annoyance. “You’re just trying to tell me that the caveman part of your brain was activated when you knocked me up, and now you want to see me pregnant again.”

“I love you,” he corrects her, because he won’t let her downplay _this._ “Thinking of touching anyone else has never even crossed my mind. Even before Phoenix.” He pauses, for a second, breathing through the streak of anger flaring up inside him. “Thinking of someone else touching you -- it kills me.” He swallows hard, eyes softening on hers. “And yeah, I want to see you pregnant. I want to see you have another one of my babies, give Fee a brother or sister.” Shifting so he’s facing her more properly, he shrugs a little, using his thumb to smooth out that little dip above her brow, brushing over the birthmark there like he longs to do every day. “Call it something primal, call it duty, or soulmates, codependence, it doesn’t change anything about the fact that I love you. I want you. Not because I owe you everything, or because I feel responsible for you as the mother of my child, not because I’m afraid of losing my best friend if I don’t, or because of other men and women chasing you.” He opens his mouth, closes it, holds himself back from kissing her. “I want you because I love you.”

Clarke smirks up at him, any earlier concerns long gone and replaced by her ever-present need to make fun of him. “You think we’re soulmates, huh?”

He rolls his eyes at her. “That’s what you took away from my whole speech?”

She palms the side of his neck, runs her thumb over the underside of his jaw. “I missed those. Been a while.”

He leans forward to kiss her forehead, pushing away that weird kind of what-if-nostalgia making a quiet kind of anxiety claw up his throat. Whatever happened did, and everything worked out exactly the way it had to. They have a son now -- this beautiful, smart boy with dimples and bright brown eyes whose giggles sound like dopamine -- one they wouldn’t have had if they had taken any of the roads offered to them beforehand, if he had been just a little bit less of a coward or she had taken mercy on him much sooner. “I figured I couldn’t top your little dramatic goodbye one when you thought I was going to allow you to sacrifice yourself.”

Apparently not as willing to discuss her own flaws, her eyes darken and she leans closer to him, pressing her thumb into the little dip in his chin to hold him in place as her lips hover over his. “You gonna put a baby in me or not?”

He growls, resting his forehead against hers to keep from doing something more reckless, like kissing her. He needs to hear it again. “Say that again.”

“Put a baby in me, Bellamy,” Clarke echoes, looking him directly in the eye as she does. And like the little masochist she is, adds in that soft hoarse voice of hers, “Please.”

It’s like a switch has been flipped, like everything he’s been holding back just comes out all at once. His mouth is on hers, aggressive in it’s pursuit almost, pulling her on top of him as he collapses back onto the mattress. His hand winds into her hair, tightening in a way that must be painful, but she just moans into his hand, rocking her hips into his wantonly. 

“Mhmm,” he murmurs against her mouth as she hastily starts unbuckling the belt of his dark cargo pants, frowning as she chases his lips for another kiss, “That’s right. My needy girl, huh? Needs my cock.”

“Not just your cock,” she pants, smirking once her hand wraps around his hard length, making him hiss. She licks a stripe up his neck, and he’s convinced she’s actually trying to murder him when she adds, “Need your come, Bell.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, throwing his head back. She ducks forward to kiss his adam’s apple as she works him over a few times, then sits back on her knees, pulling her top over her head. 

His hands slide up her slides to cup her breasts through her bra, squeezing them together as he imagines how much bigger they will grow once she’s nice and pregnant again. Clarke moans, teeth biting into her lip as his thumbs flick over her nipples through the flimsy material, and then he’s pulling her back down to kiss her, fingers drifting down to her soft lower belly to make her shiver, then down to her pants, popping the button before he starts pushing them down her hips. 

Clarke pushes up the bottom of his shirt, and they temporarily part to get rid of the rest of their clothing, too impatient to take their time undressing each other like usual. He’s done before she is, making her yelp as he drags her over to the middle of the bed by her waist when she’s still in the middle of unclipping her bra, throwing her down with a bounce that makes her breasts look absolutely obscene. 

He tears off the bra the rest of the way, flicking it aside so he can latch his mouth over one of the nipples. Her hands curl into the hair on the back of his head, making soft little noises of pleasure as he pays equal attention to each side. “So gorgeous,” he mutters against her collarbone, kissing his way back up. His fingers can’t help but trail back down to the soft curve of her stomach as he noses her cheek, nips at her bottom lip. “Gonna look so good carrying my baby.”

She’s positively squirming underneath him at this point, lifting up her knees as she reaches between his thighs to take a hold of his cock once more. “Now,” she demands, eyes struggling to stay open, “Please. I need it.”

He wanted to go down on her, always does, but he’d be lying if he said his cock wasn’t absolutely straining already to keep from coming all over her stomach, those pretty tits, that pouty bottom lip. He’s much too eager, too on edge to not settle in between the v of her thighs like she wants him to, and push right home on the first try.

Clarke’s so tight, so wet and warm, fingers clawing at the back of his neck, his tricep, little gasps of air against his lips as she adjusts. He drags her knees up higher, slides in even deeper because of the angle, and then they’re both groaning, desperate for movement, friction, anything.

The first time he pulls out and pushes back in is bliss, shiver rolling up his spine as he bumps into her cervix, making her jolt as she cries out his name. He can’t hold back after that, thrusting deep and hard, fingers relentless on her clit, mouth sucking on her sensitive nipples, biting at her pulsepoint, forcefully taking her mouth. 

“Going to put a baby in you,” he promises, panting, pressing his forehead against hers. Her eyes are closed, too lost in pleasure, too close to release, but she keens in answer, cunt fluttering around him in anticipation, and God, she’s so fucking beautiful; skin flushed, jaw slack, lips kiss-bitten. He pecks her mouth, “I’m going to come inside of you, over and over again. Until you can’t take it anymore. Until you’re so full it’s dripping down your thighs.”

Clarke makes a pretty noise, and it only encourages him more. “You like that, don’t you?” He bites at the soft flesh of her breast until her thighs tighten around him. “The idea of walking around this camp with my come all down your legs. Showing everyone who you belong to.”

“Bell,” she pleads, so gorgeous, all his, and he doesn’t want this to end, but he knows there’s no fucking way either of them can hold out any longer.

His fingers press down on her clit harder, and it’s only one, two more pumps of his hips before she’s coming around him, back arching off the bed as her moans turn into stutters deep in her chest, and then he’s gone too, just like that, her eager cunt milking him for all he’s worth.

Bellamy stays inside just a little longer than usual, just to make sure his spent goes exactly where it needs to, but eventually pulls out, collapsing beside her.

“I can’t believe we did that,” Clarke half-laughs, turning her head to look at him, lazy, dumbfounded look in her sparkling eyes, still breathing hard.

“I can,” he answers confidently, because, fuck, that was straight from his wildest fantasies. The amount of times he’s imagined her saying she loved him, asking him for another baby, letting him knock her up again -- some people would probably think he’s crazy. He cocks a brow after a beat, “I can’t believe it took us this long to figure out we were in love with each other.”

“I can,” Clarke echoes, not resentful or regretful, just in acceptance of their emotional density, and yeah. Maybe he can.

“That was really hot,” she confesses, after a moment, her cheeks turning a shade pinker. “Is it bad I’m kind of hoping it doesn’t take so we can do that again?”

“You think once you’re pregnant I’ll be able to keep my hands off of you?” He rolls over onto his side, pillowing one hand underneath his cheek as the other reaches out to trace down the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to fuck you so often and so hard people might start to wonder if we’re trying to conceive twins.”

A peal of laughter spills from her lips as she catches his hand in hers, kissing the tips of his fingers. Her eyes shine with amusement as she teases him, “You’re not going to worry about hurting it again?”

“I think we’ve established that’s impossible.” Considering the things she wanted him to do to her last time, he’s pretty sure he won’t come up with anything that much worse. Now he’ll just tell her he loves her after. “He came out just fine.”

“True,” Clarke agrees, her smile turning softer. “We’re pretty okay at making babies together, aren’t we?”

He adjusts his head so it’s closer to hers, latching his mouth over hers for a minute as he revels in her, in this new version of them, in their little family. “Some might say it’s a talent.”

She hums in agreement, returning another kiss. “Be a shame to waste it.”


End file.
